The summer of 1989 contained the single most influential experience of my life. I had always insisted on playing with the boys. I never felt that I was forcing them but through my experience I realized they had felt a sense of obligation. Whether the obligation was to me (the girl), my parents or theirs, or my brother I am still not certain. The boys just wanted to do "boys things" without the involvement of a girl. Finally one afternoon they voiced their opinions.

In June the weather in Wisconsin has a refreshing breeze and the two-block radius of my neighborhood, held endless possibilities for kids. Late nights held many games of kick-the-can and hide-and-seek. During the day we went fishing in the creek, played tennis or just rode our bikes around the block. There was an absence of lakes in my hometown (very rare in Wisconsin) and the neighborhood kids often littered the streets and alleyway. Being somewhat new to the neighborhood I had the feeling of separation from my friends and the only three girls I enjoyed being around, who lived across town. But I had fun with the group of boys I hung in the neighborhood. To this day, I still am more comfortable with boys or tomboys as friends.

I was often told I couldn’t do things by my parents. But as everyone knows when you ask "why?" they have automatic reply of "because I said so." It never made sense but now I feel they were just trying to spare me any pain.

On this particular day, with the smell of fabric softener, from the stay-at-home moms doing laundry and cheese from the factory around the corner, filling the air I encountered a challenge that helped to shape me as an individual and as a woman. These boys I hung out with quickly lost interest in the daily activities we started and would brainstorm different possibilities for fun. We decided to design pushcarts. It was a wonderful idea and had everyone very excited to begin the construction. I have a gift of gab and a tendency to speak loudly, so when the oldest boy in the group overheard me, my plans came to a halt. Henry, the oldest member of the group, did not agree with the idea of me racing and had a lot of influence on the vote to keep me out. He had decided that someone needed to start and finish the race and who else but me, the flag girl.

How prestigious!? He would have to be kidding, but he wasn’t. He instructed me of my duties, which included starting the race, running down the alley to the finish line, and finally determining who won. I wanted to know why this rule had to be enforced. Henry explained, "because you are a girl." At that moment I felt like ashamed. I had never asked to be a girl and never wanted to be treated differently because I was one. In my defense I argued, " Henry, that is not fair. My dad is a carpenter and he can help me build a great cart." I also stated the fact that it never seemed to matter during football, hide and seek, or even fishing. "If you get hurt then our parents will not let any of us race. Don’t spoil it for the rest of us," Henry responded. Just because I had long hair and a shapely figure beginning to develop and they possessed something between their legs that I didn’t have, that did not make me incapable of racing. For that day, I had lost and the answer remained "no".

Who educated these boys? We obviously had the same teachers. Maybe their parents, other members of our community, or television influenced the way they thought and displayed that it was appropriate behavior.

Weekend after weekend watched from the side, not allowed to race because I was a girl. The laughing and joking continued while the carts fell apart, people lost, and the day turned dark. Watching only made me more determined to break the stereotype and prove that a flag girl I was not.

My dad was working long hours that summer, when not at work he was remodeling our own home. So my mom thought that maybe my grandfather would like this particular project. He had all the materials, including the paint. She helped me to convince him to take on the project of building my pushcart. We had a great time with the design. He often asked for my input on a variety of aspects including the final product—color.

I chose the color powder pink as a way of standing up for my sex, traditionally a girl color. I wanted to show the boys what I believe in and make the color as influential to them as it became for myself. If I could beat them in a pink cart it would symbolize my situation in the struggle for my equal opportunity. No boy wants to be beat by a girl, especially in a pink cart. I have them to thank for teaching me that.

The day I brought it home, all the boys came to see what I was keeping a secret. With the unveiling came numerous whispers and comments. The guys still refused, but I knew now that it was because they feared the pink contraption we had built. With my pushcart at my side I insisted on staying and if they wanted to leave they could. Some of the guys were very interested in seeing what the cart was made of and even attempted to bribe me to use it. "No, if I am not racing my pushcart will go home with me." That helped but what helped even more, and helps to define my childhood, is the statement "if you don’t let me race I am going to tell." That was it. They had to cave. Telling on them meant crying to my mom, and all the kids knew not to mess with my mom.

Well my mom was right there to watch even though the guys tried to tell her that I was going to get hurt. "We will just have to take that risk, won’t we," my mom said as she winked my way.

As I stood on the oil stained pavement, I knew I would remember this moment for the rest of my life. The smell of sweat filled the air and an awesome rush of adrenaline came over me as my brother gave me the push down that uninviting alley. My struggle was over in an instant. I had won my first race with the whole neighborhood watching. It felt good to know that being a girl and supporting your beliefs can take you a long way, even across the finish line—first.

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